At 12:61, Something Will Remain Between Us

In the week that holds no Friday,

On the eighth day of the week,

On the day the moon illuminates itself,

And the day the sun falls into darkness,

On the day fish learn to fly,

When the raven’s feathers turn gray with age,

And when the camel passes through the eye of a needle,

At exactly 12:61—

There will be something between us.